


a promising career in espionage

by montecarlos



Category: GP2 Series RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Character Death, Gen, M/M, Sex, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: Alex Lynn has always lived his life in excess - numerous drinks have been held within his hands, shaken of course, never stirred - and scores of beautiful men and women have fallen into his arms between silk sheets.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohnojamie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnojamie/gifts).



> For my wonderful wife Jamie - as she was the first person on my list for Christmas fic and I promised her wolves, and i know that this is not wolves but I hope she likes it anyway. This is a present for putting up with me and all my bullshit. Love you. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Alex Lynn has always lived his life in excess - numerous drinks have been held within his hands, shaken of course, never stirred - and scores of beautiful men and women have fallen into his arms between silk sheets. And none of them ever crossed his mind again - except Mitch, he supposes. Mitch was beautiful; Mitch possessed the darkest brown eyes, the most pristine caramel skin and the most engaging smirk that curved over his lip when he laughed. He sometimes thinks of Mitch - when he’s following a mark with similar eyes, with a similar skin tone.  
  
Mitch is on his mind as he kisses over her collarbone, his hands sliding underneath her delicate silky cocktail dress. She arches her back, her rouge-covered lips part into a perfectly formed circle as his fingernails trace over her silk-covered body, moving to slide beneath her silky bra. She moans out his name - the name he gave her like a mantra - as his finger slides over her nipple, teasing it gently, like he has on the scores of women before her. She opens up underneath him - her dark hair sticking to her forehead as she arches back, allows him to caress her body, to open her up beneath him. He tries not to think of chocolate eyes, of caramel skin, of the way Mitch said his name like no other person -  
  
“Oh god, Sean,” She murmurs - it’s one of his codenames, a name that he’s got a passport in, just in case, one of his many names - but Mitch was the only one who knew his true name, who managed to get beneath of the layers of him - who knew all about him, all about Alexander Wurz, all about that fateful night in the Underground…  
  
“Sean? Are you okay?” She asks, her dark brown eyes - so much like Mitch’s - focused on him. He shakes his head as though to dispel the thoughts - she isn’t Mitch. Mitch is _dead_ . Mitch is somewhere in a coffin, Alex went to his funeral and -  
  
“Who is Mitch?” Her voice is silky soft and he freezes.  
  
“Nobody,” He says, pushing a hand through his hair. And that’s the end of that - they sink back into the sheets and he makes love to her, makes him call out his fake name and doesn’t think of Mitch Evans once - except when he comes. They lay next to each other, curled up in each other’s space afterwards, his arm tracing patterns on her pale skin.  
  
“Will you be gone in the morning?” She asks, softly.  
  
He chooses not to answer, continues stroking over her skin. “Duty calls,”  
  
However, when he wakes up in the morning between rumpled sheets, she’s gone - and she’s taken his wallet and left a note in the process.  
  
_Transferred one of your trust funds into one of my Cayman accounts. Seemed only fair. You stole my heart so I stole your money. I guess we won’t miss each other._  
  
_B_  


He smiles gently, his fingers curling over the note as he looks out over the skyline of Vienna, of the sunlight brushing golden fingers over the buildings.  
  
“I guess we won’t.”  


* * *

  
  
Christian Horner, Quartermaster of MI6, dies later that evening. Alex Lynn has no idea what has occurred as he lays wrapped up around the nameless woman, that his superior is lifeless at the wheel of a car, its brakes cut. MI6 is in uproar the next morning, half of the agents deployed on missions are recalled and plans are rewritten to accommodate one of the heads of the service’s passing. However, Alex Lynn still remains in the dark about the entire thing, even through customs on his way back to Heathrow Airport. London is as unforgiving as it always is, the slate grey skyscrapers stand out against the sheets of rain as Alex exits the comfort of the heated seat in favour of the cascading grey raindrops. MI6 is as imposing as it ever was, he thinks, shuffling around in his slightly creased suit.  
  
“007, we’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while,” M sinks back into her chair, her blue eyes fixed on the agent.  
  
“I’m sorry, was just tying up some loose ends-”  
  
“I’d hardly call sleeping with the daughter of the mark you’re trailing tying up loose ends,” M snaps back, her eyes narrowing. “But that doesn’t matter at this time, MI6 is in a time of crisis,”  
  
“When isn’t it-”  
  
“The Quartermaster is dead, 007,”  
  
Silence stretches out between the young man and the older woman. “Claire, I-”  
  
M holds up her hand. “I have no desire to hear of your condolences. Things were complicated between us to say the least,”  
  
Alex worries his lip. “What of his replacement?”  
  
“Already in place,” M says silkily. “You might know of him, you were both in the same year at Eton,” She says with a flourish as the door opens.  
  
Alex’s cool, calm composure drops at the sight of the young man standing before him, a young man he remembers from years ago before he was an agent with a license to kill. He seems to have not aged a day - his horn-rimmed spectacles still perched on the bridge of his nose, his chocolate brown hair still mussed from his fingers pushing through it. He wears the same clothes that he wore back then - today it’s a ratty old brown cardigan that hangs down over a crisp white oxford shirt and tweed trousers that cling to the curves of his legs - Alex feels his mouth go dry at the sight of the man before him. It’s been over ten years since he last saw Pierre Gasly, it’s been over ten years since their lips met.  
  
“007,” Pierre says simply, his blue eyes fixed on the agent standing before him. “I’m your new Quartermaster,”  
  
“You must be joking,” Alex murmurs out, his mouth drying as he thinks about the implications of this - Pierre’s hand moving out in front of him to catch his hand in a handshake. He’s fucked, he thinks as their fingers tangle together and the corner of Pierre’s mouth upturns ever so slightly.  
  
“007,” He says, simply.  
  
“Q,” Alex replies, his thumb sliding over Pierre’s finger.  
  
_He’s so fucked._


End file.
